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To start off with, I’m not crazy. If you think I’m crazy we can stop this entire thing right now and you can take me back to my cell. The only reason I’m here is because of my parents. My rich-ass parents who couldn’t stand having a son who stuttered like a retard. They were embarrassed of me, embarrassed of their own son, for Christ’s sake! I think what set them off was a few years ago when I turned sixteen and they threw a big party with all sorts of government officials. The mayor asked me what my name is and I got nervous and couldn’t control my stuttering. Took me an entire minute to say “Noah.”

My parents were obviously embarrassed of their pathetic excuse for a son. Who would want their kid running around stuttering to a bunch of their rich friends? God forbid someone be imperfect in our household! God forbid we not get perfect grades and full scholarships to Harvard or one of those uptight pansy-ass universities only preppy boys and girls go to.

No, you can’t have any imperfections when you’re a part of high society, no matter what. So my parents-with all their money-had me committed here. I checked my charts once and they said I had “Possible Multiple Personality Disorder,” whatever the Hell that means. But I know I don’t have it, and that’s all that matters. There’s probably nothing I can do about it anyways. Even if I could convince you doctor bastards I wasn’t insane, you wouldn’t let me out. No, you wouldn’t. My parents just have too much influence. You have the fucking east wing of the building named after them, for Christ’s sake!

I’m getting to the story. I just wanted you to know that I’m on the level, because this story is fucked-up enough and it’ll be hard enough to believe coming from a sane guy. Yeah, it’s all about him. He’s the reason you found me covered in blood last night. You got a cigarette? No, I’ll light it. Okay, let’s get to the story.

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What follows is the eyewitness account from patient 22543.

Begin recording:

Shit, doc. The least you could do is say my real name. No? Well fuck you then. Okay, here we go.

I room with Sammy Franklin. I’ve roomed with him for four years, since I was sixteen. He was here before me, a couple of years before. I guess he’s just got a mental imbalance. Easily confused, unable to distinguish reality from imagination. He’s got some pills he takes every day. I tried one; it didn’t do shit.